I shake my head. “I just wanted to say… thanks. For today. For helping me get to her.”
His expression twitches, something flickering behind the brusque exterior he always hides behind. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, “couldn’t exactly let you charge up a mountain on your own like some deranged goat, could I?”
I huff a laugh. “You still came. You didn’t have to.”
He shifts his weight, glancing off to the side. “Look… about earlier. At the centre.” His jaw flexes, the apology warring with pride. “I was out of line. Properly out of line.”
I let him apologise. It’s rare he tries.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “You and I… we don’t exactly get on. We never have. But that doesn’t mean I want to be…” He grimaces. “A twat. Not like that. Not about her.”
I take a slow breath, the tension I hadn’t realised I was still holding finally easing. “She means a lot to me.”
He nods once, sharp, like the truth of it actually lands. “Yeah. I could tell.”
There’s a pause. The good kind, surprisingly.
Nick exhales through his nose. “You’re a good bloke, Alex. Annoying as hell sometimes, but good. And she’s… well, she’s something special.” His voice softens on the last words, as if even he can’t help it.
My chest tightens. “She is.”
He kicks lightly at the tarmac. “So… I’m sorry. And if I can help… you know, in future… just ask.”
This is probably the most sincere five sentences he’s ever strung together.
I nod. “Thanks. Really.”
He smirks faintly, as if emotional honesty is physically painful. “Right. Enough of that. Before you start hugging me or some shit.”
I laugh. “Trust me, that was never on the table.”
He nods once, brisk, then starts walking toward Tommy’s BMW. Halfway there, he pauses and glances back.
“She’s tough, you know,” he says. “Most people would’ve fallen apart up there in that weather. She didn’t.”
My chest warms. “Yeah. She is.”
He gives the smallest shrug, as if he’s said more than he intended, then disappears into the driver’s seat and pulls away.
For a moment, I stand in the cooling air, watching the taillights fade. It’s the first time in decades that a conversation with Nick has ended without one of us wanting to throttle the other. Maybe today didn’t just rescue Emma.
Maybe it salvaged something else too.
When I get back to the waiting area, Emma is still curled in her chair, blanket wrapped around her like armour. Her hair is damp around her temples. Her cheeks are blotchy from cold and crying. But when she sees me, something in her loosens visibly, like she’s been holding a breath she didn’t know she’d taken.
I sit beside her, close but not crowding. I let the silence settle until it feels less sharp.
“Emms,” I say quietly, “can I ask what happened? Not because you owe me an explanation. Just… because I want to understand.”
She keeps her eyes on the edge of the blanket, picking at a loose thread. When she finally speaks, her voice is small.
“I heard people talking about us. At the bakery.”
I stay still, steady. Let her set the pace.
“They said I wasn’t your type. That you must have lost your mind. That you’d drop me the minute you came to your senses.” She breathes out slowly. “And my mum said something similar. That I shouldn’t get carried away. That I shouldn’t expect much, because men like you don’t… pick women like me.”
My hands tighten, but I don’t interrupt her. She deserves space to say every word.
